


Don't Be Late

by betterlate



Category: Glee
Genre: Drunk Rachel, F/F, Finn's death scarred Santana too, Protective Santana Lopez, Santana and Rachel in New York, Santana sometimes has self-control, This could've gotten ugly, Worried Santana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterlate/pseuds/betterlate
Summary: She's spent years carefully constructing her cool indifference. So what if it's a lie?
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Santana Lopez
Comments: 1
Kudos: 46





	Don't Be Late

Rachel literally stumbled through the door when she finally got her key to turn the correct direction and managed to put the whole of her body weight behind the almighty yank that got the monstrosity of a structure to slide open enough to admit her. It was heavy, that damn door, and unwieldy, and of course it would choose this particular moment to be more obstinate than usual - trying as she was to be as quiet as possible so as to not wake her roommates. 

But deep down, of course, she knew better. Kurt was nowhere to be seen, but even as she tripped her way over the threshold Rachel’s eyes met Santana’s and there was a flash of guilt that she wouldn’t have been able to explain to herself had she had the desire to … at least not in her present state of more-than-half inebriation. As it was, the shot of guilt was almost instantly replaced by defensiveness as she regained her footing and prepared herself for some sort of altercation for which it was entirely too late. 

“Santana,” she uttered, her voice coming out higher-pitched than it should have, and probably instantly belying her state of tipsiness - if, that is, her graceless entrance hadn't done the trick. “You’re still up?” 

Her _(friend?)_ roommate rolled her eyes and turned to set her empty water glass in the sink with more force than Rachel felt was absolutely necessary. “Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p.’ “Still up.” 

“Well if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to do a quick face rinse and retire to my room,” Rachel said, annoyed that her enunciation seemed a bit off and that her words chased one another in a slurry mess and that Santana, if you were judging by her steady, unwavering gaze and her firmly raised eyebrow, was equally and unmercifully aware of it. 

“Be my guest,” Santana said, her tone utterly devoid of emotion, which Rachel, in her current state, deemed both insulting and provocative. 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” she demanded. 

She was met with a just slightly higher eyebrow and a visible tightening around Santana’s mouth, which caused her dimples to deepen, but not in the way that Rachel had come to love, like when she smiled a patented Santana Lopez™ smile or lit up during a performance at the diner, which Santana would deny to the end of all time but which Rachel found to be unspeakably endearing. No. _These_ were pissed-off dimples. And her lack of a response to Rachel’s prodding left Rachel desperate to elicit one. 

“If you have something to say to me, just say it and get it over with!” Rachel ordered, using all of her self-control not to stamp her foot petulantly.  
  


Under ordinary circumstances, Santana would probably show her cards here, with a fleeting flush of amusement at Rachel’s … _Rachelness_. But here, now, after several hours of heart-squeezing, sweat-producing, infuriatingly helpless _worry_ , she just didn’t see anything funny about the situation. She calmly and deliberately stepped up to Rachel, toe to toe, locked eyes with the shorter girl, and held her gaze solidly. “I’m glad you’re not fucking _dead_ , Berry.” 

Then she left Rachel gaping, open-mouthed, as she turned on her heel and swept away to her partitioned-off room, where she would lie in bed and try to remember how to breathe properly as she grasped the sheets in sweaty hands and fought off unbidden memories and panicky horrors of after-midnight phone calls, free-falling fears, loss, loss, loss. 

Rachel was _here_ , she was _okay_ , and Santana might be able to look at her tomorrow and be only relieved for that, and grateful, without the almost irresistible urge to slap the small singer across the face for awakening the monster of worry that lived deep inside of her. 

For now, it was safer for them both if she stayed away. 

  
  



End file.
